Oh Say, What Is Truth?

"I'd like to bear my testimony that I know this church is true. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that my Heavenly Father loves me, and I am thankful that we have a living prophet, Thomas S. Monson, to guide us through these latter days. I have a testimony of the Book of Mormon, and I know that God hears and answers my prayers. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

Fast and Testimony meetings are among the more interesting of Mormon practices. On the first Sunday of every month, Mormons fast for the first two meals of the day, and donate the money that they would have spent on food to the church to be used to help the poor. In church on this day, instead of the usual sacrament meeting with prepared talks by pre-assigned speakers, the pulpit is opened up to all the members-- to anyone who wishes to speak. At these meetings, Mormons do what is called "bearing one's testimony."

What is a testimony? I've used the word on this blog a few times already. Mormons talk a lot about testimonies, but looking back, it's difficult for me to put my finger on exactly what the word means. As best I can tell, a testimony is a sense of the truth of the LDS church-- a feeling, really, a "burning in the bosom" that tells you that this is the truth. To bear that testimony is to share it.

Here's the thing. It's often said in the church that one's testimony is found in the bearing of it. As I look back, that disturbs me. In testimony meetings, the vast majority of testimonies given are variations on the same theme, which I used as the opening of this post. Everyone says more or less the same thing, often with personal anecdotes or a focus on a specific principle, such as faith or prayer. The phrase, "a testimony is found in the bearing of it", sounds a lot to me like, "if you tell a lie often enough you start to believe it yourself." The church openly encourages people to get up in front of the congregation and say things that they don't necessarily believe, because if you say it, you will start to believe it.

How does one know if the LDS church is true? If you ask a member, they will tell you to pray about it. They say that God will tell you, by way of the Holy Ghost, that it's true. What does the Holy Ghost feel like? It's said to feel different to everyone. Some people get goose bumps, some feel a burning in the bosom, and others just feel a sense of peace. According to members, you know the church is true if the spirit tells you in your heart.

I always had difficulty with this concept as a member. How do you tell what's supposed to be the Holy Ghost, or the Spirit, from your own feelings? Feelings are great things that serve several functions, but identifying truth isn't one of those functions. I might feel all warm and fuzzy about the car I'm buying, but that doesn't mean that it's a good car. Only a naive fool would buy a car without taking it for a test drive, checking the engine, and generally making sure that they were getting a fair deal on it. Would you buy a car that sounded funny when you drove it, just because you had a good feeling about that car? Of course not! Your feelings can tell you whether or not you like the car, but whether or not the car runs well is independent of your feelings.

The gap between feelings and evidence is a difficult problem in Mormonism. Sometimes what the evidence tells you is different from what the church tells you. How does one reconcile these things? The answer, in Mormonism, is faith.

Faith-- that's enough of a topic to merit a blog post of its very own, but I'll try to address it here. When I have shared my concerns about the LDS church with friends, family, and ecclesiastical leaders, the people I talk to do not have any logical answers for me. They often try, but ultimately we come to a dead end. They-- and I-- cannot reconcile the facts. When we reach this point, we invariably return to the concept of faith. I've spent hours trying to get some of these people to tell me what, exactly, "faith" means. From these conversations, the best definition I've been able to come up with is the ability to set aside your rational concerns and objections and just believe in something regardless.

I don't see any merit in this. To quote Sigmund Freud, "Am I to believe every absurdity? If not, why this one in particular?" There are hundreds of thousands of unfounded propositions that one could make. I could propose that the sky is purple, but all the faith in the world won't turn the sky purple. Mormonism has unfounded claims. Why should I believe them without evidence, while rejecting the unfounded claims of Catholicism or Buddhism or Islam? At this point we come to the Holy Ghost. But the way the Holy Ghost manifests itself is supposed to be through feelings. In my own personal experience, the feelings that I or others have attributed the Holy Ghost have been indistinguishable from my own feelings. I have felt the "Spirit" in church; this is true. But I have felt those exact same feelings in movie theaters, libraries, and practice rooms. The feelings that I have experienced while reading the Book of Mormon have been indistinguishable from the feelings I felt while reading the Lord of the Rings, watching Ever After, or playing Beethoven's Pathetique, Opus 13. Does the fact that I felt those things mean that a hobbit named Frodo really traveled across Middle Earth to throw a ring into a volcano? No, of course not! So why should the fact that I felt those things mean that a guy named Nephi and his posterity really did the things that the Book of Mormon says that they did, in spite of evidence to the contrary? I could go into the anachronisms and other problems in the Book of Mormon, and I probably will in a future blog post, but that isn't my point here. My point is that my feelings about the Book of Mormon-- or anything else in the church-- don't make anything true. Certainly those feelings have value, but they are not indicators of truth. Furthermore, members of other faiths feel just as strongly about their beliefs as Mormons do about their own. Who is to say who is right? The only person who can comprehend a person's feelings is the person who felt them. What right do I have to say that another person's experience regarding their faith is invalid? The only conclusion that I can accept in good conscience is that feelings, while valuable and valid, are not indicators of truth.

Given this, I see the LDS church's approach to epistemology as dishonest and harmful. Encouraging people to say things until they believe them and insisting that feelings are a firm basis for decision-making is not honest. I have never, in all my time as a Mormon, been encouraged to look at actual evidence for and against the church. Historical documents, the archaeological record, and logical processes are not seen as valid methods for finding out if the church is true. The way you're supposed to find out is by praying and getting a "spiritual confirmation" in the form of a feeling.

There is another problem in the Mormon church's approach to finding truth-- one is expected to start with the answer predetermined. To consider the possibility that the church might be wrong is considered a bad thing, a road to apostasy, a thoughtcrime. Honest intellectualism doesn't work this way. A true seeker of truth will welcome doubts and questions. If something is true, then it can withstand whatever questions or evidence I can throw at it. One should never be afraid to ask hard questions. If you feel uncomfortable asking difficult questions of your belief system, then something is terribly wrong. You should never, ever be afraid to think.

Out of all the different problems with the LDS church-- the history, the doctrine, the culture-- its attitude toward truth and the search for truth is the one that disturbs me the most. When I was getting ready to go to college, I mentioned to an adult friend that I was considering studying philosophy. This friend warned me against doing that, as she had known a girl who had studied philosophy at BYU and then apostatized. This bothered me. Philosophy, when you break it down to its Latin roots, literally means the love of truth. I love truth; why should I be afraid of it? There are times when I wish that the LDS church was true and that I could believe it-- but wanting doesn't make it so. As a humble seeker of truth, I am morally obligated to follow wherever the facts, the evidence, and logic may lead me. I may be wrong sometimes. People who look for truth often revise their views. Einstein's Theory of Relativity supplanted much of Newton's work. Does that make Newton's work invalid? Most of what Newton discovered was "true", in a limited sense. But it was incomplete. Similarly, I may be wrong about some things; in fact, I most certainly am wrong about many things. But I am aware of that possibility. I do not get up the first Sunday of every month-- or any other time-- and proclaim that I "know" that mass is attracted to mass. I have no need to keep reminding myself to believe in that. If I stopped believing it without evidence, that wouldn't make me bad (although it would make me gullible and intellectually irresponsible). On the other hand, Mormons-- and members of many other religions-- have to constantly remind themselves to believe, lest they "lose their testimony." The way I see it, truth stands on its own. I don't have to keep reminding myself and bearing my testimony of gravity. That would be silly.

Religious people sometimes speak as if accepting something without evidence is a virtue. I see that as a heinous crime against sanity. Evidence is vital when one is attempting to form a worldview that is anywhere near reality. Without evidence, one would be subject to believing any irrational proposition that might come one's way, regardless of its truth or falsity.

I am reminded of a video clip that I saw in one of my college history classes about Galileo. Galileo Galilei's work supplanted much of what Aristotle had said. One of those things that he supplanted was the idea that heavier objects fall faster than lighter objects. In the video that I saw, Galileo was sitting at dinner with some church and political figures, discussing his theories with them. He told them what he had discovered-- that objects fall at the same rate, regardless of weight. His dinner companions asserted that this was not possible, as Aristotle

had told us that Galileo's assertion could not be true. Galileo proposed that they test the idea, but his dinner companions objected, saying that that was not necessary. Aristotle had already told us what was so, and there was no need to test the matter any further. But Galileo proposed that they test it, just for fun. He picked up a grape and an orange from the table, and he dropped them. Each hit the table at the same time. His dinner companions were astonished, but still refused to accept what was right in front of their eyes.

The Mormon approach to spiritual truth is a lot like that, in my view. Once you've had that spiritual witness, once you've felt good about the church, you don't need to test it anymore. Once the prophet has spoken on something, there's no need to debate the issue further. A real seeker of truth, once they think they have found the truth, will always keep the caveat, "but I could be wrong." A real truth seeker will welcome the opportunity to be proved wrong, because if you are wrong, wouldn't you want to know about it?

So this is why I'm a Mormon heretic. Everything I've written on this blog is subject to review. All the evidence I've seen against Mormonism is subject to reevaluation in the face of new information; I'll gladly reconsider in the face of new evidence. But I cannot in good conscience accept a certain set of feelings about a given proposition as evidence that said proposition is true.

Once a Mormon, Always a Mormon

I no longer consider myself a Mormon. But, in some ways, I will always be a Mormon. There are certain parts of my Mormon upbringing that are a part of me.

When I first lost my testimony, everything associated with the Mormon church that had used to bring me joy was unbearably painful. Listening to old favorite hymns like "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" and "Come, Come, Ye Saints" felt like a razor to my heart. The sight of a temple made me ache inside. One evening a few months after my apostasy, I went to the grounds of a temple near where I live, just to think. It had been over a year since I'd gone inside a temple. The sight of the temple, glowing white against the evening sky, awoke such a sense of loss in me that I just cried for nearly an hour. And on top of all of this, I was angry. I shoved all these things that I used to love away from me. I wouldn't allow myself to feel anything positive about them anymore.

But I will always be a Mormon. That is something that I have to come to terms with. I can remove my name from the records, I can never set foot in a Mormon building again, I can delete all the hymns from my iPod and throw away my scriptures and hymn book, but I'll still be a Mormon. I've had to learn to tell myself that that's okay. It's okay if "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" still makes me feel the way it used to. It's a familiar hymn, and, to be fair, it's a beautiful piece of music. It's okay if the sight of a Mormon temple still makes me ache; what else would you expect from someone who grew up singing, "I love to see the temple, I'm going there someday"?

My former, Mormon self would tell me that the things I feel when I see or hear these things is the Spirit of God telling me that the church is true. I think most Mormons would say that. But just because I still feel this way doesn't make the church true. I was raised around these things. They are safe, comfortable, and familiar. I can't speak for another person, but I'd venture to suppose that a person who was raised Catholic would have similar feelings when visiting a cathedral and hearing Mass. All religions have beautiful things in them. For centuries, the most beautiful music, art, architecture, and poetry was religious. The words of Isaiah are exquisite, the Sistine Chapel is an incredibly beautiful edifice, and Handel's Messiah is a masterpiece of composition. I can't praise those things enough; they represent some of the highest achievements of human endeavor. But that doesn't mean that the religions they represent are true. The same goes for Mormonism. Mormon artists have written hymns, painted pictures, and designed temples, many of which are very beautiful. I am learning to accept the beauty of these things without feeling intense sadness or visceral anger.

The sadness is an interesting thing. Since I no longer believe, I feel that these things no longer belong to me. But I will allow myself to feel what I feel in response to beauty, even if that beauty comes from a religion that betrayed me.

Young Women

I have come to believe that the LDS church's youth programs are programs of control and manipulation-- particularly the Young Women's organization. The LDS church is very big on traditional gender roles-- the man as the "priesthood authority" and the woman as the compliant housewife. A lot of this is subliminal, but what is overt is shocking.

Consider, for example, the Young Women theme. Every week, all the young women stand and recite the following word-for-word: We are daughters of our heavenly Father, who loves us, and we love him. We will stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things and in all places, as we strive to live the Young Women values, which are: Faith, Divine Nature, Individual Worth, Knowledge, Choice and Accountability, Good Works, Integrity and Virtue. We believe that as we come to accept and act upon these values, we will be prepared to strengthen home and family, make and keep sacred covenants, receive the ordinances of the temple, and enjoy the blessings of exaltation. Listening to a room full of 20-odd young women reciting that in monotone unison is chilling.

Another example is the the Sunday lesson manual. Sub-sections include, "Fulfilling Woman's Divine Roles," "Contributing to Family Life," and "Learning about the Priesthood." Lessons are packed with teachings about how the divine role of women is to stay at home and raise children. True, there are sections on such things as education. However, while these sections may appear innocuous on the surface, even they serve to reinforce the idea that women belong at home and are made to serve others. The lesson I provided a link to, for example, suggests using images of a mother teaching her children and a woman teaching at church as part of the lesson. The message is clearly that a woman's education must train her to serve her family and the church.

Another lesson is devoted entirely to marriage-- specifically, the Mormon conception of it. A significant portion of this lesson is devoted to a story featured in the New Era some years back.

“It all began that first Sunday in March. Or did it? I guess it couldn’t really have had a beginning, because Karen, Emily, and I have been best friends forever. Whether celebrating birthdays and knitting identical purses in Primary as young girls or marching on the drill team and double- or triple-dating in high school, our vastly different personalities somehow seemed to complement each other, and for 15 years we were practically inseparable.

“After high school graduation, though, things began changing in our gleesome threesome. Karen and Emily lived at home and attended the university, while I lived three hours away in a small state college dorm with five strangers. After enduring so much together, we wondered what a few miles could possibly do to our great friendship. But we soon knew. …

“I realized that our special communication had vanished, but I was still shocked one day to open my mail and find a wedding announcement from Emily. Even more surprising was the absence of the wordtemple in the announcement.

“I rushed home that weekend and headed straight for Emily’s. There we talked—talked in the almost forgotten way we had that eternal year ago. She had only known Ted two months, but he was the most handsome, intelligent, popular guy on campus. They would both finish college, and then Ted would go on to dental school. His folks had already agreed to help them with expenses, so that would be no problem. After he graduated, Emily joked, all they would have to do is sit around and rake up the money.

“Once again I had begun to feel close to Emily, when suddenly, I heard myself wondering out loud why there had been no mention of the temple on her announcement. ‘Well, we can’t,’ she said, her flippant attitude not quite covering the concern I sensed. ‘Ted’s a Baptist in the first place, and besides, we want to be married in his parents’ ski lodge and write our own ceremony. A wedding should be really personal and meaningful, not just the same words for everyone. Ted will join the Church someday. But even if he doesn’t, my dad’s not a member and it hasn’t stopped my mother from being active. It won’t stop me either.’

“By the time Emily was through with her well-practiced little spiel, her defiance had built a wall between us once again. What could I say? After a few moments of fumbling chatter to try to ease the discomfort, I said goodbye.”

Pause in the story and have the young women consider this question:

• • If you were Emily’s friend, what would you say to her?

Continue with the story:

“Three weeks later I attended Ted and Emily’s ski lodge wedding. Contrary to my expectations, it was a very striking event—though not religious in any way. They both read poetry to each other for the ceremony, while a flute played lightly in the background. After there was dancing, with punch for us Mormons and champagne for the others. Ted’s parents were super rich, I could tell, and they had just about planned the whole wedding. They were deliriously happy with their new daughter-in-law (and probably a little from the champagne, too). But I noticed Emily’s mom had really red and swollen eyes—like she’d been crying a lot. Mothers are that way—especially when it’s their only child.

“Surprisingly enough, Emily did stay active in the Church. With all her school work and married duties, she attended her meetings faithfully and also served as the assistant librarian. She and Ted lived in an apartment in our ward and I saw her quite often. She always gave me glowing reports of marriage and told how great Ted was to her. ‘What a life,’ I thought.

“Six months later Karen married a returned missionary who was just completing his master’s degree in education. They were married in the Logan Temple, so I couldn’t go, of course. But I did attend the reception in our cultural hall, and it was really beautiful. …

“I kept seeing Emily now, coming to church radiant and excited about everything she was doing. ‘No problems at all,’ she would say. ‘He’s really very liberal. “You go to your church and I’ll go to mine.” Only he doesn’t even go to his.’ But in the back of my mind I could also see Emily when we were younger: praying her nonmember dad would baptize her, wondering if her dad would take her to the Primary daddy-daughter party, trying to pretend it didn’t matter when he went golfing instead of coming to her seminary graduation. But then childhood is such a small part of life. What difference does it really make in the long run?

“Karen and Emily, still doing things together, had baby girls within a week of each other. I took a pink dress to Emily’s little girl and absolutely fell in love with her. Karen’s mother told me in church one day that Karen, David, and their little Melissa would be coming in March to show off the baby and get her blessed where Grandpa and all three of Karen’s adoring older brothers could stand in the circle.

“Then came the first Sunday in March. …

“As I made my way … into the chapel, I met Emily and her baby in the foyer. It was her first time back to church since Julie’s birth. We talked for a minute and then entered the chapel. Emily and her mother sat in the row in front of me. …

“Through the rows of heads and shoulders that I saw from my position on the fourth row from the back, I caught a glimpse of Karen and the rest of her family taking up an entire center bench. …

“After the songs and announcements were over and after we had taken the sacrament, Bishop Edwards stood behind the pulpit and said, ‘This afternoon we have a special treat. I know many of you have known Karen Evans since she was a little girl.’ Emily looked back at me and winked knowingly, but then turned her head sharply forward as the bishop went on. ‘Well, this afternoon Karen, now Karen Sanders, has brought her own little girl to receive a name and a blessing from her husband. Assisting in the circle will be her father and brothers.’

“As I watched David take his little girl from Karen and carry her almost reverently to the front, I could see a side view of Emily. Tears were rapidly filling her deep blue eyes and streaming down her face onto Julie’s downy head. Her shoulders shook violently as she buried her head in her baby’s neck. Emily’s mother tenderly put her arm around her daughter’s throbbing shoulders, and I could see that she, too, was crying. Emily looked up, and I heard her gasp in a desperate whisper, ‘Oh, Mama! Who is going to bless my baby?’

“ ‘I bless you, Melissa, with a sound mind and body,’ I heard David Sanders say at the front of the room, ‘and that you will live a righteous life, that when the time comes, you will meet a choice son of our Father in heaven, one who honors his priesthood and who will take you to the temple of the Lord to be sealed to him for eternity.’ Through the entire blessing and for the rest of the meeting, Julie’s baby shawl absorbed her tears.

“And now, even though a year has passed … whenever … I see a mother and baby alone, something grabs at my heart. For I keep seeing Emily” (Carolyn White Zaugg, “I Keep Seeing Emily,” New Era, June 1975, pp. 26–29)."

The message of this story is, in essence, "if you do not marry a good Mormon boy in the temple, you and the children will suffer for it." I remember being given this lesson several times while growing up, and each time I promised myself that I would not suffer that kind of pain. It was very effective.

Marriage is considered to be the ultimate goal for an LDS young woman. In the Young Women Theme, "mak[ing] and keep[ing] sacred covenants" and "receiv[ing] the ordinances of the temple" refer to marriage-- Mormon marriages are performed in temples. Temples are presented to young women as the ultimate fairytale castle for their weddings. Young Women are expected to complete "Personal Progress", a program that stresses the eight values listed in the theme. Elements of Personal Progress include preparation for homemaking and church service, preparation for marriage, and reinforcement of "keeping the commandments."

Chastity in young women is so important in the LDS church that there are annual firesides specifically dedicated to chastity. A new "value" was recently added to the list of values that Young Women are required to memorize-- Virtue. I'm not criticizing the idea of virtue or chastity; only the LDS church's treatment of it. If a young woman in the LDS church commits some kind of sexual sin (which can range anywhere from French kissing to actual intercourse), she must go to her bishop and go through a lengthy "repentance process" in order to regain her "worthiness." This process entails not being allowed to take the Sacrament (the Mormon equivalent of communion), meeting regularly with the bishop, and "confessing" the sordid details of her sin to the bishop. How does this compare with Christ's treatment of the woman accused of adultery? Christ was the most perfect human being ever to walk the earth. He was perhaps the only person who ever had the right to condemn anybody else for sin. Yet, his words to the adulteress were, "Neither do I condemn thee. Go, and sin no more."

Young women in the LDS church are frequently told that they are of "infinite worth", but actions speak louder than words. Is the "virtuous woman" the only one whose worth is "far above rubies"? The attitude of the LDS church towards women indicates that their worth is contingent upon conformity. Pink pastel conformity.

The Book of Abraham

Up to this point, I haven't gone into a whole lot of detail about what specifically caused me to come to the conclusion that the LDS church is false. I'm going to do a bit more of that now.

Like I said, there were lots of things that went into my conclusion. However, the straw that broke my testimony-camel's back was the Book of Abraham.

The Book of Abraham is part of the canonized scripture (also known as the "Standard Works") of the LDS church. It was purportedly translated by Joseph Smith in 1835. It was supposed to have come from Egyptian papyrus that had found its way into the hands of Joseph Smith. The papyrus had been discovered, along with some mummies, by Antonio Lebolo around the year 1820. Lebolo had them sold, and they were bought in New York by Michael Chandler in 1833. Chandler then made a travelling exhibition of the mummies and papyrus, occasionally selling parts of the exhibit.

In July of 1835, Chandler brought the mummies to Kirtland, Ohio, where the Latter-Day Saints were settled. Although the Rosetta Stone had been discovered in 1799, only a few people in Europe and certainly no one in America would have known about it, much less been able to translate Egyptian hieroglyphs. Chandler had brought them to Kirtland because he had heard of Joseph Smith's supposed abilities as a translator of ancient languages.

When the mummies had been brought to Kirtland, the LDS people were very interested in purchasing the papyri. Chandler, however, refused to sell the papyri alone; he insisted on selling the entire exhibit. The LDS members raised the necessary $2400 and purchased the exhibit. For this reason, the Book of Abraham and several related books are called the "Pearl of Great Price", in reference to a verse from the New Testament about a man who went and sold all he had in order to buy a single pearl.

After this, the story goes that Joseph Smith translated the papyrus, and the translation was published as the "Book of Abraham", along with several facsimiles of pictures from the papyri.

There are lots of issues with this version of the story. The question is further complicated by the fact that some of the papyri owned by Joseph Smith was destroyed in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. In 1966, the surviving papyri were found in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and translated. The translation of the surviving papyri had nothing to do with Abraham.

However, this problem was not the major one for me. After all, some of the papyri were destroyed in the Chicago fire, and it's perfectly plausible that the papyrus that the Book of Abraham supposedly came from was destroyed. The main problem for me lies with the facsimiles in the Book of Abraham. These facsimiles are published in the Book of Abraham, along with commentary on what they are supposed to mean. Two of these facsimiles contain actual hieroglyphics. The third is problematic because it is actually included in the surviving fragments of Joseph Smith papyri, but part of the picture is missing.

Facsimile #1

The facsimile as published in the LDS Standard Works

A photograph of the surviving papyrus fragment

With this one, the argument goes that the fragments missing from the original papyrus were erroneously redrawn. In the LDS Standard Works, the picture is said to be of Abraham on an altar, being sacrificed by an evil priest. The bird in the picture is representative of the Spirit of the Lord, with the figures under the altar being heathen gods.

However, the contention is that the image is in fact a picture of Osiris being resurrected. The figure to the left is the god Anubis, effecting the resurrection of Osiris; the bird is his spirit, the figures under the altar are canopic jars, and the very bottom figure is a sacred crocodile symbolic of the god Sedet. Below is a professional reconstruction of the image:

As you can see, the indication seems to be that the existing papyrus fragment was already damaged when Joseph Smith acquired it, and that he drew in the missing parts as he saw fit. However, with this particular facsimile, it's perfectly possible that the image on the papyrus really was as pictured in the LDS Standard Works. It seems unlikely to me, but it's a perfectly rational objection.

Facsimile #2

This type of image, frequently found in Egyptian papyri, is called a hypocephalus. Hypocephali were typically buried with Egyptian mummies, and they represent Egyptian ideas about death and life after death-- further reinforcing the conclusion that the papyri that the Book of Abraham supposedly came from are simply funerary documents. As you can see, the hypocephalus (pictured above) has actual, translatable heiroglyphics on it. In the Pearl of Great Price, Joseph Smith's "translation" of said heiroglyphics is included in the text. However, when these heiroglyphics were translated by Egyptologists, they were found to have nothing to do with Abraham, Kolob, or anything else related to the Hebrew religion or to Mormon doctrine.

Facsimile #3

The last facsimile in the LDS Standard Works is supposed to picture Abraham sitting on the throne of Pharaoh, with other people (Pharaoh; "Prince of Pharaoh, King of Egypt"; Shulem, a waiter; and Olimlah, a slave) standing about. In the Pearl of Great Price, the interpretation of the figures explicitly states that the names of the several of the figures are written in the hieroglyphics above them. However, when these hieroglyphics were translated, they were also found not to say the things Joseph Smith said they did.

These three facsimiles alone seem to me to be adequate to show that Joseph Smith was not what he said he was. Unfortunately, the Book of Abraham is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Mormonism.

Metaphors for the Process

Losing one's testimony is a long process.

I can point to that night in November as the defining moment, the epiphany, the moment my mind fully accepted that the church wasn't true. And, in one sense, that moment was it, because after it happened nothing was the same. Before it happened, I was clinging to remnants of sanity/insanity in the face of massive cognitive dissonance. The human brain can only handle so much cog dis for so long before it has to re-frame its paradigm.

It wasn't really that simple, though.

In the weeks leading up to my heretical epiphany, I vacillated between two states of mind. The first was stubbornness. I knew the church was true, and any information to the contrary was just misguided, or propaganda, or the wiles of Satan. I had a testimony and by golly, I wasn't letting it go! This was my state of mind most of the time.

But there were moments . . . you might call them weak moments, or you might call them strong moments. It all depends on your point of view. I remember one moment in particular. I had just gotten out of a class and was walking back to my apartment. I remember meditatively watching my feet as I walked, my hands in my coat pocket. I thought, "what if the church isn't true?" I thought about the implications of that. The world looked so different through that pair of glasses. I couldn't even comprehend what it might be like to not believe, but I remember feeling fear and, simultaneously, fascination. I had never allowed myself to entertain that possibility before, even hypothetically.

As the weeks went on and my thoughts about the church evolved, I got closer and closer to my "moment of truth." Sometimes I just wasn't sure. At times I felt very depressed. One thought that constantly played in my head was, "I feel like the rug has been pulled out from under me." That is what doubting felt like for me. Or, to use another image-- in a Loony Toons cartoon, a character runs off a cliff and screeches to a halt in midair. They look down and feel for the ground-- they only fall once they come to the realization that they are no longer on solid ground. I was trying to metaphorically keep from falling when there was nothing but air in all directions.

One of my favorite novels is Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Near the end of the novel, the character Javert is forced to come to terms with the idea that the thing that he has placed his entire trust, his entire identity on-- namely, the law-- is fallible. The realization is too much for him, and he throws himself into the Seine. The lyrics from his soliloquy in the musical adaptation capture this emotion:

"And must I now begin to doubt,

Who never doubted all these years?

My heart is stone and still it trembles

The world I have known is lost in shadow.

Is he from heaven or from hell?

And does he know

That granting me my life today

This man has killed me even so.

I am reaching, but I fall

And the stars are black and cold

As I stare into the void

Of a world that cannot hold

I'll escape now from the world

From the world of Jean Valjean.

There is nowhere I can turn

There is no way to go on...."

All through the process, both before and after my epiphany, these thoughts and similar ones bounced around in my head as I walked to classes and waited for sleep at night.

Besides the online support community I had found, music became my main solace. I listened to a lot of Norah Jones's music. One of my favorite songs was "Nightingale":

"Nightingale

Sing us a song

Of a love that once belonged

Nightingale

Tell me your tale

Was your journey far too long?

Does it seem like I'm looking for an answer

To a question I can't ask?

I don't know which way the feather falls

Or if i should blow it to the left

Nightingale

Sing us a song

Of a love that once belonged

Nightingale

Tell me your tale

Was your journey far too long?

All the voices that are spinnin' around me

Trying to tell me what to say

Can I fly right behind you

And you can take me away

You can take me away

Losing my testimony was-- and is-- a long process. For those first few months, I was grieving. It was like losing a loved one. Only, I could not ask my friends and family for support as I grieved. They would not, could not, understand. It was not that they did not love me. I don't know if this is a Mormon thing, or a human thing, but people have a hard time with people who don't believe the way they do. It's frightening for a Mormon when somebody stops believing. It's safer to compartmentalize them as lazy or sinners. When a loved one loses faith, Mormons are faced with the choice of compartmentalizing that loved one or accepting them. Nobody wants to make that choice about somebody they love, so most people will try to convince the heretic to recant. They want the other person to get back into the safe box, where the believer can understand them and relate to them. This was the reason I could not turn to friends and family for support. I didn't want to argue. I didn't want to compromise my personal integrity by recanting. So I remained silent.

Grief is hard; grieving alone is even harder.

Beware the Bitter Fruits of Apostasy

As the days and weeks went on, I learned to be OK with my conclusion. That may seem strange to somebody who has never questioned the church; it certainly would have been strange to me when I believed. Yet, a rational person does not reach a conclusion because they want it to be the right one. A rational person weighs the evidence and chooses the conclusion that seems most sensible to them-- regardless of their own desires about the truth or falsity of said conclusion. A sane person does not force themselves to believe something that seems to them patently false. Truth does not change; only our perception of it does.

The LDS church is not very generous to people who leave it. Someone who has left the LDS church is usually labelled an "apostate"-- the worst thing in the world to be, if you are a Mormon. The LDS church publishes Sunday School lessons and the General Authorities give talks about "Beware the Bitter Fruits of Apostasy" and "Avoiding Personal Apostasy." Since the leaders of the LDS church naturally believe that it's true, they have to come up with reasons that people would leave (besides finding the church to be false). One of the most common is "offense." The concept of being offended is often illustrated by stories from the early LDS church. One is the sad tale of Symonds Ryder. When Symonds was issued a mission call, whoever wrote it up spelled his name "Rider" instead of "Ryder." Symonds decided that if a church that was supposed to be true couldn't even spell his name right, why should he believe that it was right about other things? He apostatized.

Another is the Tragedy of the Milk and Cream. Two sisters of the church had agreed to an arrangement involving milk and cream for cheese. One sister cheated the other, keeping more cream for herself than had been agreed. The slighted sister confronted the cheating sister, who denied any foul play. The case was taken up through the home teachers, the bishop, the stake president, all the way up to the president of the church (why they thought a disagreement over cream was something the president would care about is beyond me), the cheating sister denying her cheating the whole way. When the ruling was consistently against her, the cheating sister and her husband left the church, and her husband supposedly got Governor Boggs to issue the infamous Extermination Order. (As an aside, it seems to me that the moral of this story is that church and the judicial system ought to be separated.)

Thus we see the bitter fruits of apostatizing because one has been offended. And, as we all know, a rational person is easily offended by the misspelling of a name or a correct pseudo-judicial ruling. We must take especial care to avoid such things.

Another cause commonly ascribed to apostasy is presumption-- the apostate has criticized church leaders. This version of apostasy irks me because I'm a free-thinking sort of person. I believe that anybody and everybody who holds authority (read: power) over somebody else can and should be open to questioning and criticism. Trusting authority implicitly leads to slavery.

As you should be able to see, I don't fall into either category-- unless you interpret the definition of criticizing authority very loosely (a good part of the body of evidence I found against the church was the fact that Joseph Smith was a charlatan. Polygyny, polyandry, fabrication, Book of Abraham, theocracy, destruction of freedom of the press-- deception and misdeed upon deception and misdeed).

Since apostates are painted in such an unfavorable light by the LDS church, and since I was a student at an LDS-run school, I was in a delicate situation. I couldn't exactly "come out" to those around me-- apostasy is an excommunicable offense, and excommunication while at an LDS school leads to expulsion. The LDS church is very interested in using the Brigham Young Universities to turn out individuals who are good representatives of the church-- educated, articulate, and with strong testimonies. Conformity is the rule at BYU.

As a result of this situation, I was forced to pretend to be something I was not. It was easy, in the sense that I knew how to act. I didn't have to change my behavior at all. It was difficult in the sense that I don't like keeping my thoughts and feelings secret. I prefer to be up-front-- "This is who I am, this is what I believe. If you disagree with me, then I'd love to have an intellectual debate with you, or we can agree to disagree. But you have to accept that this is who I am." Faking interest in saccharine Relief Society activities became a chore-- I would study late at the library just to avoid being roped into going to activities. My saccharine interactions with the bishopric and other church leaders developed a slightly ironic edge. I found that a sarcastic tone would creep into my comments in church classes, and before long I was expressing mild disagreement with teachers and FHE siblings. In short, I became frustrated at the cage that I was imposing on myself. True, the cage was somewhat imposed by the LDS church and its conformist school, but I chose to go along because I wanted to stay at that school. It was my choice, though I resented it.

As time went on, I found that this cage forced me to explore my personality in new ways. I felt defiant. I no longer believed that the primary purpose of my existence was childbearing; I defiantly threw myself into my studies and other intellectual pursuits. I decided to develop a persona that, while still within the boundaries of BYU-acceptable behavior, pushed the edges of the cookie cutter.

Aftermath

I remember the night I lost my testimony very clearly. It was a cold, clear night early in November. I wrapped myself in a blanket and stood outside on the balcony outside my apartment. I looked at the stars and cried-- there was nothing else that I could do. I don't know how long I stood there, reeling.

It was very late, and I had a class fairly early the next morning. I knew I was going to have to go back inside, brush my teeth, go to bed, and get up in the morning as if everything was the same. That night, I prayed like I'd never prayed before that I'd be able to make it all work, that I'd be able to understand, that the data would compute somehow. Of course it didn't. "Facts are stubborn things," as John Adams put it.

My early class was a religion class. It was surreal to sit there and know that since the last time I had sat in that chair, my world had turned 180 degrees. I knew that the implications of my conclusion could be devastating. I loved my college, and didn't want to leave it-- but now I was an outsider in my own culture. Everything I had been, everything I'd worked for and wanted, had gone up in smoke.

One of the clearest memories I have of that day is between two of my classes. I went into the restroom and just stood in one of the stalls, leaning my forehead against the cold, white tile of the wall. There were small, rectangular windows up near the ceiling. I looked up at the windows and tried to calm my reeling mind. I had a class in ten minutes, and I had to get it together. It felt like the world had come to an end, and yet the hundreds of people in the hallways and the classrooms and the bathrooms went on as if nothing had happened. I felt like a tiny, black, frightened, still dot in the midst of swirling white chaos.

By that evening I was desperate for someone to talk to-- not just to talk to, someone who would understand. I was still trying to convince myself that I could believe, but it was like trying to reconstruct a million pieces of shattered glass. It was impossible. None of the people I knew-- friends, family, classmates, roommates-- would be able to comprehend my situation or sympathize with it. I was afraid of being branded an apostate. I was worried that they would try to convince me otherwise. However much I wanted the truth to be otherwise, wanting didn't make it so-- I knew this acutely. I was in no emotional condition for intellectual sparring. I was spent.

In my desperation, I did something a bit foolish, but also the best thing I could have done at the time. I created an account on a website meant to offer support to people in my situation, and basically spewed my thoughts and fears onto the Internet for all to see. I was worried that the people on the website would try to push me away from the church, but at that time I basically just needed a shoulder to lean on. Surprisingly (to me), this website provided that shoulder. People responded with kindness and empathy and advice, not the pushing or judgement that I felt like every person in the whole world would give me if I shared my thoughts. I think I can safely say that these people, whom I will never meet in real life, gave me a life preserver when I was drowning. I learned that a change of world view is a survivable, and even a positive thing. There was still pain ahead of me, but the worst was over. I had lost my testimony, and I had survived.